


a former love that I once knew

by peppermintz



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dark Water spoilers, F/M, tagging this was messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:10:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintz/pseuds/peppermintz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My dear Doctor, I could snip open the skin on your chest and pull one of your hearts out and replace it with my own so you'd remember the right way to love me again.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	a former love that I once knew

**Author's Note:**

> I'm terribly disappointed that there isn't really any Twissy fic out there yet. Granted, Dark Water did just premiere, but, even so. . . Yeah, I decided to vent my feelings with PWP. (;;◑＿◑) You can blame my buddies on Tumblr who got me heavily obsessed with these two.

Her hands are small, but her nails are sharp and, overall, they do a lot of damage. He can't say he doesn't enjoy it, though. He might actually love it more than her. Which is strange because she's seemed to pick up even _more_ masochistic tendencies over the years. The list of them must be too long for even God himself to try to count, the Doctor's sure of it.

She tastes like Gallifrey. He's sure if he broke away, he could see the shimmering, orange light from one of its suns dripping off her lip. But he wouldn't tear his mouth away from hers now if it were a life-or-death situation.

Although, currently, kissing her like this _is_ an equivalent to a life-or-death situation.

Those piercing nails of hers rake down his back and he's grateful he's still wearing his shirt because he'd have marks across his back for days if he'd chosen to fling it aside. But, come to think on it, it seems like the less clothes are cast aside, the better.

Missy fists a hand into his silver hair and drags his mouth away from hers – to catch her breath, he quickly realises. He hadn't noticed it was depleting for himself, either. It was as though they were trying to rob it from each other and couldn't quite get there.

“You look so fragile now,” she remarks with a toothy grin, dropping a hand between them and skimming over the front of his trousers. The nails scratch lightly over the heated fabric now and he drops his head to her shoulder, hissing. “So bony and thin – if I wanted, I could snap every little one of those bones with my fingertips,” she whispers, stroking him through his trousers. He thinks he manages “fuck” one or two times. It must be the Scottish in him in this body that's prompted him to swear far more than any of his previous incarnations.

“I could break you, play with you, pull at your threads till you're all but a few sad, loose strands,” she tells him, unzipping his trousers. Her hand slips inside them and his pants and the coolness of her palm meets his cock. The Doctor chokes down a groan and bites her neck, making her gasp before she speaks again:

“My dear Doctor, I could snip open the skin on your chest and pull one of your hearts out and replace it with my own so you'd remember the right way to love me again.” Missy's fingers are so very quick and nimble, finding almost instantly the points where he likes to be touched the most. He attempts to grasp his dignity and not buck against her hand, but fails rather spectacularly. “I could carve a needle from one of your bones and sew _our_ language, that lost, glorious, mighty language that belongs to only _us_ , into your flesh and into mine. I could paint the pretty, pretty lips I've got with your blood. I'd make myself look beautiful with what fragments of you were left, because you're everything-–”

She sounds much more bitter now. He's panting into the skin of her neck, eyes tightly shut. “–- everything I ever wanted to be. I deserve what you are.”

“Not nearly, you don't,” he mutters.

“Shut up, for once, why don't you,” she snarls, squeezing her hand around his cock. It verges on pain and he groans. “You never, ever shut up, no matter which Doctor it is, isn't that right? Mercy, I'd love to train you up again.”

“Start now,” he says, his voice even rougher than he'd intended and he relishes in it when he feels the shiver that trips down her spine. He pushes her hand away from him, rucks her skirt up, and shoves her knickers aside to glide his fingers through her folds.

Of course, she's going to be dramatic and cry out, her head dropping back against the wall the moment he touches her. He rolls his eyes and flicks his thumb over her clit, eliciting a high-pitched moan from her as she rocks her hips against him.

“That's one of the first things I did, you know,” Missy breathes out, gripping his nape and forcing him to look her in the eyes. Her pupils are blown so wide he almost can't see the colour of her irises. “After regenerating? New body, darling, and an entirely different sex – what else could one do but experiment? Oh my word, isn't it tempting? I worked the teeny-tiny fingers I suddenly had just like you're doing, Doctor, and did I ever _scream–”_

“It's your turn to shut up,” the Doctor growls. He forces two fingers inside her, curls them up, and the gasping whimper she emits is what dreams are made of. It's a special kind of satisfaction to know she's putty in his hands just like she, or he, always used to be. She was always his and he was always hers and that cicatrix on his mental state left by his Mistress never just past a barely-healing scar. He just likes to think he can forget about her sometimes.

She's slick and wet silk and burning around him as he thrusts in and out of her, curling his fingers on every upstroke, and he prays to any merciful god out there with every fiber of his being that Clara won't think to come looking for him and she's not being alerted by Missy's unfathomably lewd noises.

“You could keep it down,” he snaps.

She cracks an eye open, a devilish curve to her breathless smile. “Maybe I would if you finished up quicker.”

“I intend to, lass.” He pulls his fingers out of her and she gives a loud whine of discontent until he presses them to her lips. She hums and grips his wrist, sucking and licking her essence off his fingers and he can't help but groan a little at it.

She mock-pouts at him. “Oh, did you want a taste?”

A smirk tugs at his mouth. “Sounds like an idea, doesn't it?”

He drops to his knees in front of her and pins her hips back against the wall. Missy gives a purr of encouragement and knits her fingers through his hair.

“I finally have the Oncoming Storm kneeling before me again. Memories seem to want to come back, don't they?”

“Ones under less dirty circumstances, I'm sure,” he mumbles against her thigh. He presses kisses up from it to the apex between her legs and places his lips over where she wants him most.

“'Quicker' only has one definition and I'd like you to stick with it,” she tells him in irritation, though she shudders again. “Get on with it.”

“Patience,” the Doctor chides her softly, and runs his tongue through her dripping folds. Missy sighs and tightens her grip on his hair, swinging a leg over his shoulder.

She doesn't talk very much after that. As he laps at her and sucks and uses his tongue to draw out rather disturbing sounds he didn't even know _anyone_ was capable of, he memorises her taste and texture. She tastes just like time and home and nostalgia and it aches. Not just physically (although that is becoming an uncomfortable problem), but it strikes deep enough that it hits his hearts and he wants the piece of home where he could live in bliss with her again. With him. Either or both. They're still one and the same person, the same Time Lord and Lady somewhere deep, deep down.

The Doctor sucks her clit into his mouth and Missy gives her loudest cry yet. Her back arches and she snaps, shatters, breaks apart under his mouth. He licks her gently as she experiences the aftershocks.

“Get the hell up here, you gorgeous boy,” she orders, voice sounding ragged. He's only too happy to comply, swiping his mouth off with the back of his hand before he crushes his lips to hers.

She kisses him like she wants to drown in him now. She makes the most impossibly tiny sounds of want against his mouth, holding the sides of his face for dear life. He takes his cock in hand and guides himself to her entrance.

He buries himself in her with an upthrust that certainly must not be polite. It expels the air from her lungs and her nails dig into the fabric of his shirt so hard he feels it this time. He manages to set a pace quickly, hard enough to leave him choking on words, hard enough to make her sob.

“I thought you mentioned patience!” Missy gasps, clutching his shirt for something to hang onto. He huffs a laugh next to her ear.

“And you protested. Never gonna be happy, are you?”

She sticks her tongue out at him, and he almost feels bad for snickering when she bites down hard on it with his next thrust.

“Not with you still keeping up your reputation of the universe's special bastard, no,” she snarks back.

“Well, I'll just go tell the universe how insulted I am.”

Their conversation falls to nothingness from that point. He grinds against her clit on every stroke and Gallifreyan tumbles from her lips between cries and pants and it's melodious. He struggles to maintain a grip on himself as he presses his face into her hair, trying to muffle his own moans.

Due to their desperation, it doesn't take long for them to topple over the edge together – although he comes first and she has to twist and press down on her clit before she follows him afterward. She _does_ scream, how funny. It's loud, too. Bloody effing drama queen, acting like a primadonna when she almost matches him in physical age.

Their breathing takes a moment to steady out after he pulls out of her. She presses butterfly-light kisses over his neck and cheek and nose until it annoys him so much that he steps away from her and sniffs in disdain.

“Why do you feel the need for that?” he asks her, doing his trousers back up. She's fixing herself back in place meticulously, inspecting every inch of herself she can see.

“What, indeed?”

“All the kissing. Not the kind on the lips, but the little ones you just keep throwing at me, like you're sprinkles and I'm an ice cream cone.” He scoops his jacket off the floor.

“You are tasty enough for it, you know.” She pins her hair back up. He likes it better down. “What's the matter with sprinkles? Your fifth self loved those tidbits of affection, or don't you remember?”

He frowns, messing about with the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. “I block out the most embarrassing things.”

“Then I suppose you can't remember at all what Sixy wore, can you? I try to forget that, too.”

“It was in style!” he said, feeling incredibly indignant.

“Denial is dragging you deep down, isn't it? Poor baby.” Missy starts off down the corridor, heels clicking. He follows quickly. “Now, weren't we supposed to find your _other_ girlfriend? The boring, human one?”

“Not my girlfriend. She's soldier-boy's girlfriend.”

“You frolic in the sheets with half of them. Hard to keep track!”

“I'll have you _know_. . .”

 


End file.
